


At Mos Bina

by TwinEnigma



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alderaan got blown up earlier, Alternate Universe, Beru is so Tired, Discussion of Genocide, GFY, Gen, Interrogation, Leia will stone cold murder a Hutt, Mental Breakdown, Obi-Wan Kenobi is a Mess, Overprotective Uncle Owen, Slavery, That's Not How The Force Works, Threepio is Concerned(TM), Vader is a mess, the Force does whatever it wants Helen, there are consequences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 17:45:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17228483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwinEnigma/pseuds/TwinEnigma
Summary: The Empire makes an example of Alderaan earlier. The sands of Tatooine shift and a storm begins to grow, spreading with the wind.Did you hear about what happened? There, at Mos Bina? There was no other way forward.





	1. all we have is our bones and our secrets

**Author's Note:**

> This is a redux of "They were at Mos Bina." If you had previously read that, you will notice that I have made some changes to the story in terms of theme, chapter content and even chapter order. There is also an additional chapter added. These changes address certain issues with the story. Additionally, they remove certain things which I no longer feel comfortable including or that it would be appropriate to continue to include, due to a situation I was made aware of with the previous version. It is also for this reason that the previous version will no longer be available publicly. Anyone wishing to reread the previous version will have to contact me privately, starting on January 1st, 2019. 
> 
> That being said, I do hope you enjoy the redux.

                It comes without warning.

                Savage and ruthless, in a single instant the people of Alderaan are rendered homeless.  It is intended as a demonstration, a test fire for a superweapon not even near total completion, against a world thought to have rebel sympathies.  Only those lucky enough to be off-world have been spared, a small fraction of a population that once numbered in the billions.

                Huddled among the diaspora, Princess Leia finds herself twice orphaned.  The Empire has taken both her family and her world.  Looking back at the ashes of her world, she dries her tears and takes the pain and the anger, putting it to the side, saving it for another day.  One day, she tells herself and the other survivors, the Empire will be made to pay for this travesty.  For now, all they have is each other:  they, together, are all that remains of Alderaan and this is something that cannot be taken from them, no matter what follows.  Even stripped of everything, this is the one thing they cannot lose, the one thing that they must not let be taken from them.  It is something they have each branded into their hearts.

                “For Alderaan,” they whisper quietly among themselves, “We must survive.”

                “For Alderaan,” Princess Leia says.

 

* * *

 

                They are a fleet of the lost and unwanted.

                No one will take them, she learns this the hard way.  No one wants to risk having the same fate befall their world.  Senator after senator, world after world turns them away and, worse, some have begun to exile the few Alderaanians who had been there, many for generations, in their fear.  Even the Corellians, known to loathe the Empire to the last, will not have them – they may have rocket fuel for blood, but they are not fools.  Credits are running scarce and supplies are dwindling.  Their options are growing scarcer with each day and their numbers only swell as more of their displaced and orphaned people find their way to her.

                She thinks, perhaps, that they should seek out General Kenobi or the Rebellion, but she fears the Empire might be watching still or, worse, using them as bait.  Her advisors and bodyguards agree: they know all too well of the Empire’s capacity for cruelty.

                They manage, scraping together what little they have left, and try for the Outer Rim.

                And that is where the slavers find them.

 

* * *

 

                “They must not know you are the princess,” her bodyguards say as they help her change into one of their uniforms and quickly, purposefully restyle her hair to match their own.  Outside, in the halls, the dull whoomps and shrieks of blaster fire grows closer.

                There is fierceness in their voices, a defiant resolve, and Leia hears what they are truly saying: _they have taken everything from us, but they shall not take you._   She is now more than princess, more than senator: she has become a symbol of Alderaan.

                Distantly, she thinks of her sister in all but blood, Winter, on one of the other ships and how she must be doing the same.  Winter would tell her this, too, is something they must endure, if only to survive long enough to bring justice.

                “They must not know,” her bodyguards remind her once more before the doors come crashing down.

                Leia takes the identity and title of Princess, burying it deep inside her heart and bones where the slavers cannot see it and layering over it with every scrap of deception learned at her father’s knee.  She tries not to think of the escape pod, of R2-D2 and C-3PO, hurtling away from them in search of General Kenobi, and instead focuses on the lie she must now tell.

                They must not know.

 

* * *

 

                Leia watches in silence as she and her people are slowly separated to be sold, their ships scrapped and scavenged for anything of value.  She hides her fury, hides her pain, because she must if she is to survive.

                The explosive chip they have placed beneath her skin is something she is intimately aware of.

                “Endure,” her bodyguard whispers, kissing her cheek in farewell, and marches with her head held high to the auction block.

                “Endure,” she tells her people when it is her turn – an order, maybe the last she’ll ever give them – and she goes with her head held high.

                “For Alderaan,” they whisper as she passes, “We must survive.”

                It is a promise.

 

* * *

 

                The Hutts like pretty things.

                Leia is grateful that they do not like politics – or, at least, the _Empire_ ’s politics – and do not recognize her among the other Alderaanians they have paid for.  They see only a young human girl with a pretty face, one of several such girls and no more remarkable than the one next to her in line.

                The part of her that is a senator, that believes in freedom and justice, violently swears that this affront must end.  She promises herself, then and there, that when she is free, she will bring the Rebellion here and they will stop this madness.  R2-D2 and C3-PO will make it and they _will_ find Obi-Wan, she believes that – she has to.

                She takes her fury, her indignation and turns them over and over, until these feelings are a polished thing, smooth and sharp as durasteel blades.  Then, quietly, she puts them aside.  They have a place, but they will not help her very much here where survival is in obedience and defiance is a subtle thing to be found in the spaces between “Yes” and “Master”, where what is given is only what is expected and all that is important is concealed by the illusion of absolute servitude.  It is a game she recalls well from her time in the Senate and her father’s lessons, though the stakes are, perhaps, more intimately dangerous than ever before.

                The Emperor is rarely so direct as he was with her homeworld.

                She vows to herself that she will not give the Hutts the satisfaction of her anger and humiliation.  She will give them only what they expect to see and nothing else.  She has faith that R2-D2 and C3-PO will find Obi-Wan and bring him to help.

                Then she _will_ seek justice for her people.

                For now, she will bide her time and endure.

 

* * *

 

                Tatooine is harsh world, far from the lush memory of Alderaan. Here, water is more precious than all the money in the world and the sand sticks, cloying and coarse. Bright and rich colors exist only indoors and, at that, seem limited to the Hutt-controlled bars, casinos and pleasure palaces. Everything else is bleached by the double suns and scoured smooth by the sand.

                In the slave quarters of Mos Bina, it is like another world entirely. She and her people are not trusted, not truly, by the slaves already there. Sure enough, they show them where things are and what is expected; they are even kind, if they are unlikely to be seen by an overseer. But they rarely speak freely in front of them and when they do, it is because they have not yet realized they are there and they do so in a strange dialect that seems to jump all over the Rim and slave worlds. Just as when the overseers come, these people fall silent in front of the Alderaanian survivors and give no indication that they even know anything save Basic and Huttese.

                It is a harsh lesson: the survivors are outsiders to the Tatooine slaves, despite their common situation. Whatever they have built in secret remains their own. It is the only thing they truly _do_ own.

                If anything, Leia and the other Alderaanians can respect that.  After all, the Hutts cannot take away something if they don’t know it exists and they, too, refuse to share their greatest secret.

                Leia is simply far too important to them to take such a risk.

                The Princess of Alderaan eludes all, unbound and untouched.

                And so there remains a gulf between them.

 

* * *

 

                “On Alderaan, my name had a meaning,” she confesses to the elder women one night. She dares not give the rest, dares not allude that she is more than a mere survivor of Alderaan who has fallen victim to slavers. Even her true name remains a secret to them. “But I’m afraid that one day no one will remember what it is.”

                The old Tatooinian woman combing her hair hums thoughtfully.

                “We’re all so scattered now,” she says, twisting her fingers in the fabric of her skirts, “Too few.”

                The woman twists her hair into an intricate loop. “It is a sad thing, but what can you do?”

                “I can survive,” Leia tells her, sharply.

                At that, all the old women laugh.

                “That is true,” the one doing her hair agrees, smiling. “You are not yet dead and so you may yet see them again, even if it is just in here.”

                She points then at Leia’s heart, gently tapping the comb against her breastbone.

                “They cannot take your heart,” one of the others says in agreement, nodding her covered head, and says a phrase in their private tongue that Leia has come to recognize as a litany of some fashion.

                It is the same phrase she has heard whispered since she was sold to this place, the same phrase they say so often in their secret tongue that she is starting to hear the cadence of it in how they say certain things in Basic. They hide it well, but Leia was raised a spy and a rebel and she knows how to listen better than most.

                “They’ve taken everything else,” she says with a heavy sigh, and it hits her all at once, all over again, everything that she has lost. The sheer magnitude of it is drowning her and she cannot stop the tears that come or the sobs that follow.

                Her past is all that she owns now. Everything else is dust and ash.

                “Let it out,” the old woman says, embracing her gently. She does not say that another time may not come, but it hangs unsaid nonetheless.

                Leia will take what she can get. She thinks of R2-D2 and C3-PO and begs all the gods of Alderaan that still live in her heart that they find General Kenobi soon.

                Until they come, she has to do what she must to survive.

                There is no other way forward.

 

* * *

 

                One day, there is a commotion.

                “Come, come quickly,” an elder, the one all call grandmother, says, beckoning her.

                All the slaves, young and old, Tatooinian, Alderaanian and those from worlds far beyond the Arkanis system, pour out of their quarters, murmuring and whispering with confusion and excitement.

                “What’s going on?” Leia asks as they press forward, flooding the gallery.

                She is caught in the tide of sentients and flows with them.

                The elder, eyes bright, pulls her along, turning her head. “A man has come to free us.”

                Leia feels the air leave her body in a rush and she sags against her grip, barely even registering the old woman’s admonition of her being an outsider who does not know why this is somehow a special thing.

                “Does he have a droid with him?” she asks, her throat suddenly dry with desperate hope, “A blue R2 unit?”

                The old woman’s eyebrows rise in awe and wonder, silently asking how it is possible that she could have known this.

                Leia laughs, relief and joy flooding her.

                R2-D2 and C3-PO made it.

                And when the Hutt calls for her, she is ready.

                She will be free and she will have justice.

                Nothing may touch her.

                She is, at last, without fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBH, neither group here really trusts the other with their secrets, but that's fair, given the situation. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	2. things said and unsaid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that Owen, Beru and Luke speak a dialect for a good chunk of this chapter and it may sound odd because it's meant to be a direct translation.

                Luke knows of Old Ben, of course: everyone does. The Wizard of the Wastes is a bit of a local legend. An old man, he travels around the area, doing the odd job here and there, and has done so for as long as anyone can remember. He knows a little about many things, from medicine to engines, but everyone around knows that is not _all_ he can do. Everyone knows he can do things that anywhere else might sound a bit like something out of the old tales. It is not spoken of outside the community, for that is not their way, and it is never wise to anger a wizard, besides. Still, he does not much trouble anyone and rarely ever goes near town, content to come and go as he pleases and do little things for those that have need of it.

                He is sand-mad, maybe, and it is said he is prone to talking to all manner of animals, but if that is his way, then who are they to judge him? He lives honestly, at least, and that is no small thing on Tatooine.

                Until now, though, Luke has never seen him up close, and never without the protective sesi scarves and talla robes.

                He is old, white-haired and sand-wizened, and yet pale as the salt flats even in the double-sunset. At his side are two droids, one bipedal protocol-type plated in ridiculous gold and the other a squat, scuffed blue and white astromech-type with a round girth and curved dome that had probably gone out of date a good twenty years ago. The protocol droid seems nervous while the astromech seems a bit put-upon, but Old Ben is unreadable.

                Uncle Owen throws down his tools and stands to look at him, fury darkening his features. “What do you want?”

                And, yet, Luke sees his uncle’s eyes drift to the droids.

                “They have done it. Alderaan has been destroyed,” Old Ben says, quietly, in fancy-accented Basic.

                Uncle stills, the color draining from his face and, behind them, Aunt Beru lets out a sharp cry, her knees folding beneath her.

                “A whole planet - _gone_?” Luke gasps in sheer disbelief. That couldn’t be true!

                The astromech wails in binary, a keening shriek of despair and confirmation, and Luke feels the bottom drop out of his stomach.

                How – how could this be possible? Who could have done such a thing? Why?

                He feels ill.

                Uncle, pale and shaken, presses a hand to his lips and then draws it away. “What about the girl?”

                “She survived, thank the Force, but she and the other survivors have been taken and sold to the Hutts. She’s here, _now_ , on Tatooine,” the old man answers, and there is cold fury there, one that anyone on Tatooine knows well because the threat is never more than a failed harvest or a bad turn of luck away. This is the way things are and it is sad, but it is true, as Aunt and Uncle always say.

                “Help me get to Mos Bina, Owen. It is all I ask,” Old Ben pleads and, beside him, the astromech warbles out a distressed _please karking help my small commander_ in binary.

                Luke looks to his aunt and uncle, searching for a cue to do or say _something_ , but they are standing together now and they are terribly, terribly still. They should help, shouldn’t they? Were it anyone else that came running and said the Hutts had stolen away family, they would have already offered all they could spare! But for the old Wizard of the Wastes, they suddenly have nothing to spare, not even words?

                “Uncle Owen,” Luke ventures, “What about the speeder? I could take him. We’d be back before you know it.”

                That seems to get Uncle’s attention.

                “You will do no such thing,” Uncle Owen snaps, giving him a sharp look. “Go back in the house! Go on! Go!”

                “He has every right to want to help,” Old Ben says then, which only serves to make Uncle far more upset.

                “It’s the right thing to do,” Luke adds in bewilderment, because it _is_ and this is true, so his uncle’s reaction is strange.

                At that, Aunt sighs loudly and Uncle looks deeply torn.

                _Variant is right_ , the astromech comments in bleeps and whistles. _He functions optimally._

                “I should hope so!” the protocol droid states in a funny, super fancy Basic accent. “Oh, what to do, what to do…”

                “Ben, do you even have money?” Aunt asks, stepping forward. “I know you, you know everyone around here is poor and you don’t ask for what they can’t give. Oh, Ben, what will you use to pay?”

                The Wizard of the Wastes lets out a contemplative hum and then says, “I may yet have something of worth to offer.”

 

* * *

 

                And he does.

                It is a bag, full of little crystals that shine warmly in the double sunset, and they’re the prettiest things Luke has ever seen in his whole life. They almost seem to glow, but they would, he supposes, for they belong to a wizard.

                But Uncle is not so easily impressed and he gathers Luke and Aunt close, telling Old Ben and his droids to wait outside while they talk it over. Even just enabling a Freeing by driving the speeder is a risk that must be measured proper before doing at all and something tells Luke deep in his gut that the old wizard won’t be happy with just freeing the one girl – a commander, even!

                While Aunt and Uncle discuss the matter in Quanue, Luke wonders who the Alderaanian girl is and how she is family to the Wizard of the Wastes. After all, no one _actually_ knows where the old man came from or anything like that. As far as most people around here are concerned, he sprung up fully formed, like a spirit from the old tales.

                Why, he’d even come with treasure, just like the old stories! It’s a sure bet _that_ would cause a stir in town.

                “Then it’s decided,” Uncle Owen says, jostling Luke from his thoughts. “I’ll go to get her. That idiot can stay _here_ and wait.”

                “You don’t know her face,” Aunt Beru says pointedly. “He does. Take him. It will not kill you.”

                Uncle shakes his head, snorting in obvious doubt. “I’d rather take that damn fool protocol droid.”

                When Luke suggests that he should take Old Ben instead because of how it would look, his uncle nearly cuffs him upside the head.

                “I don’t know why you would say that. It is shameful to even suggest such a thing,” Uncle Owen scolds him. “He is not Quanu and has no claim to it. He is an outsider and crazy.”

                Aunt Beru’s sigh is long and deep and the look she gives Uncle is one of long-suffering patience. “Luke, it would be a cruel thing to do to someone who has helped you all your life.”

                This, Luke had not known. “I’m sorry,” he manages. “I wasn’t thinking.”

                Uncle Owen crosses his arms over his chest stubbornly. “And he is a fool, besides. Do not forget _that_.”

                It was obvious that Uncle Owen did not like Old Ben from the start, but there was no disguising the anger and bitterness that colored Uncle’s voice.

                “Chht!” Aunt Beru spoke then. “A man can be ignorant and still know suffering! I have seen and I _know_. And he may not be of Tatoo or of our way, but he has been on the block, as I am alive and have eyes to see with!”

                She pauses, looking at Luke, and adds, “I treated his wounds, long ago, when he brought you to us, and I saw his scars.”

                She presses two fingers to her throat, a sign all children of the Rim know, and Luke gulps in horror. There isn’t a kid born on the Rim who doesn’t know what a slave collar looks like and to think that the strange old Wizard of the Wastes had once been shackled with such a thing is a mighty frightening prospect. Why, it would be like trying to tame the very sand itself! And, yet, someone had done so once, though he is obviously long free now.

                Never in all the wild theories Luke’s heard in town about Old Ben’s origin had the idea that he’d ever been bound come up. It would have been sand-madness to even think it. But if they did not know of his scars, then how could they imagine the impossible?

                They could not and this is the truth of it.

                “A speck of sand in a storm - it changes nothing,” Uncle Owen spits out. “He is a liar and hypocrite, he and all his mystic, crazy nonsense. You will stay away from him, Luke, before he gets you killed, too.”

                With that, Uncle stomps outside.

* * *

 

                Luke stares after him, processing all that had been said, and it is a lot.

                Aunt Beru stamps her foot and throws up her arms, a prayer for patience on her lips. “He should not have said that,” she says, then, and shoots a troubled look at the door. “But he blames him for your father’s death and it is a thing we cannot change.”

                “Why does he blame him, though?” Luke asks, confused.

                Hadn’t his father been a navigator on a spice freighter after he was freed? What could a navigator on a spice freighter have _possibly_ been doing with the weird old Wizard of the Wastes that caused him to die?

                Aunt merely shakes her head and waves her hand. “These are things we cannot know. What happened was not anything we could have changed and some day he must accept that.”

                She sighs then and pulls Luke into a tight hug. “He should be more grateful, besides. Your father was of two people then and Ben had claim to you – this is true, they were brothers. But he honored our kinship first, out of love of your father, and he brought the joy of you to us. He is a fool in much, true, and bound to his ways, but in this he has done right, so you must not be disrespectful.”

                “I still don’t understand why Uncle hates him so much,” Luke mumbles in Basic and clings to the knowledge he has just gained of his father like the precious thing it is.

                “There are as many reasons as there are grains of sand,” Aunt Beru says dismissively, letting go and stepping away. “Not all of them are good ones, but some are good enough and true. There is much that you do not know about things.”

                Luke rolls his eyes, shifting his frame away from his aunt. It is an old Quanu saying and he is tired of it: he is no longer a child and he is Quanu, besides! He knows about the slavers and the Hutts already and that the world is filled with unfairness and misery. What could the old wizard have done that was so bad in Uncle’s eyes?

                “And then there are the things that are too terrible to say,” Aunt continues, sighing wistfully, and she gently brushes his hair from his eyes and the ever-present dust from his shoulders. “Your uncle forgets that when all else is gone, we will not be alone, even if we are stolen away. We are Quanu and we will have our people and our ways to support us. But for Ben? For him, there is no one, not even the Quanu. He has no people anymore, no place in the world.”

                Luke stares, his brows furrowing.

                “This you _must_ understand, Luke,” she adds. “He is the last of his people and his ways, this is true, and he saw his people die – _murdered_ for being who they were. He survived this, when so many did not, and he carries the truth of what he has seen with him always. It is a grief we cannot know.”

                She frowns, her eyes sad, and stands as if bearing a great weight on her shoulders. “What an unspeakable thing happened to his people! And now it has happened again – a _planet_ this time! It is _unthinkable_! It is madness, inconceivable _madness!_ That this should happen _once_ in my lifetime was bad enough, but that it should be _twice_?”

                Aunt shakes her head. “This is no good. This is no good.”

                Luke wraps his arms around her in a hug because he does not know what else to do or say about the situation that can make it better but this – comforting his aunt – is a thing he _can_ do. He knows this in his gut. It will not make the horrifying truth about the genocide of either Ben’s people or the people of Alderaan go away, but it is as solid a reminder as any that he and, by extension, Uncle are there when she needs them.

                “With just one left to tell the truth, it has died in the vacuum and nothing has been learned at all,” she says quietly and returns the embrace. “It will happen again, Luke, this I know, because that is what happens when the truth is not spoken and shared.”

                He nods and silently promises himself that he will not allow this sort of thing to happen again if he can help it. He will learn the truth of it and share the story so it does not die.

                Stories have power and more in the telling, he knows this, especially if they are true.

                Plus, everyone is always saying he has a big mouth and doesn’t know when to be quiet, so it should work out fine. Yes, he thinks: that is what he will do.

                Aunt smiles a little then, swallowing a sob. “Go with your uncle, Luke. Ben will stay here, where I can watch over him. I fear he may do something stupid if he goes. He loses all sense when family is concerned - I have seen it and I know.”

                Luke pauses a moment and then nods again. He’s never seen them, but he’s heard of people like that and it is a sad thing.

                “And see to it that you behave,” Aunt says, wagging a finger at him. “You can be so reckless sometimes.”

                Luke smiles, promising nothing, and practically skips up the steps and out the door.

 

* * *

 

                Old Ben is still there when Luke comes outside. He is watching, a faint smile on his face as the astromech fusses at Uncle about the projector unit he is fiddling with and the protocol droid manages to both carry on an argument with said astromech and fret over his friend.

                “If you stopped your grousing, I’d be done already!” Uncle complains in Basic.

                The astromech gives him a dazzling, anatomically-impossible suggestion in binary.

                “Do forgive R2,” Old Ben says, “He is a veteran, you know.”

                _I am the best veteran,_ the astromech agrees happily.

                There is a click and whirr and Uncle stands up, wiping off his hands with a rag. “There. Try it again.”

                The astromech gives him a saucy retort in binary, but does comply, projecting a holo onto the sand.

                It’s of a girl and she is striking. Something about her face seems familiar – or maybe it’s her eyes or the way her hair is elaborately styled – but Luke somehow knows that girl. He feels it deep in his gut and knows it is true.

                “Just like her mother,” Uncle says, thoughtfully, and Old Ben nods.

                Luke wonders how his uncle might know this, but then he catches a glimpse of the wizard’s expression and he pauses.

                There is such a sadness in Old Ben’s face and now Luke can see it, the truth in what his Aunt had said: there is no way he can come with them to do this thing. Even if he did not do something foolish, he could not hide his heart well enough to fool the Hutts and then there would be no price they could ever hope to match to buy this girl’s freedom. It is a sad thing, but it is the truth.

                Old Ben _must_ remain here.

                “Aunt wants you to stay,” Luke tells him in Basic and tries to sound as gentle as he can though his heart aches from the burden of the truth. No family wants to be told they cannot go to save their own, but this is how it must be. There is no other way forward if they are to succeed.

                The old wizard looks at him and smiles softly. “I supposed as much,” he admits. “And there is no arguing with your aunt.”

                Luke can’t help smiling a bit at that because it is true: there is no arguing with Aunt Beru and everyone knows that.

                Uncle snorts and moves so he is closer, nearly blocking Luke from the old man. “We have to get moving.”

                “Naturally,” Old Ben says and pulls back the edge of his talla robe, revealing the pouch and a metal device of some sort that almost looked like a pipe. He unbinds the pouch and gently offers it to Uncle.

                Luke has never seen his uncle look so put off in his whole life.

                “Are you sure?” Uncle asks, after a moment. “Don’t these hold the souls of your dead?”

                Luke starts at that and now looks at the pouch in horror. To think such pretty crystals held such a thing!

                Old Ben shakes his head in the negative, to Luke’s instant relief. “They are just impressions of their owners, really. I don’t need these to remember them. They are with me in the Force, now.”

                The wizard’s other hand drifts to his belt and rests there. “Had things been different, their owners would have wanted to help in any way that they could. It was our way, once, before the dark times.”

                A chill slips down Luke’s spine as he realizes what the dark times must have been.

                Old Ben pauses, letting out a heavy sigh and closing his eyes for a moment before adding: “This would be allowing them to do as they were always meant to, from a certain point of view. It is what they would have wanted, I know it. Keep them close and the Force will guide you.”

                Uncle grumbles under his breath and reluctantly takes the pouch. His body seems to sink with the weight of it in spite of its small size. “Come on, Luke.”

                Luke turns to follow as his uncle starts for the speeder and the whole time he almost can feel the wizard’s eyes on his back, even if all he can hear is the protocol droid’s anxious fussing. Then, a gentle nudge against his leg snaps him out of it.

                The astromech, R2, looks at him with his sensor. _I am kriffing going, too,_ he blats. _Variant sky guy will need me. I am the best veteran._

                “Shouldn’t you stay with your master?” Luke asks, staring at the droid in confusion.

                _I have a mission, priority one,_ R2 answers evasively and scoots ahead, beeping and whistling for Uncle to lift him into the speeder.

                Luke blinks, shaking his head, and marches on. What a weird droid!

 

* * *

 

                Once they’re all loaded in the speeder and they have been bundled up with proper talla robes for the journey, Uncle grumbles and hands Luke the pouch so that he can steer properly. The suns are still on the horizon when they finally leave and begin the long cut out across the flats towards Anchorhead. From there, they’ll have to travel north and cut hard across to the east. It’ll be no small thing, this trip.

                In Luke’s hands, the pouch feels warm, even in the dimming light, and he can almost hear whispers, but that is _sand-madness_ and he tries to ignore it.

                This is a rescue. They can’t afford to be distracted.

                And yet… holding the pouch, Luke feels like they can do this. They can find this girl and save her for sure. The crystals want to help and they are practically whispering it in his ears.

                “Are you sure these don’t have ghosts in them?” Luke pipes up, giving the contents of the bag a wary glance.

                The crystals do not speak, but they almost glow with a light of their own and that is definitely not normal.

                _Force things_ , R2 whistles, sagely, as if it answers everything.

                “It’d figure,” Uncle mutters. “I _told_ you he lies.”

                Well, Luke supposes they can use all the help they can get. Freeing someone is no small thing on Tatooine, this much is true. If the wizard ghosts in the crystals want to help, why not let them? Who is to say that they do not have some magic left to spare for a good cause?

                It certainly will make one hell of a story, that’s for sure.

                _Do not worry, variant,_ R2 beeps. _I have a plan._

                “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Uncle responds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a bear, because it just did not want to be tidied up like the original - and it really couldn't, given what it tells about this particular AU.
> 
> And then, kark, the dialect went six ways to Floki fucking about and I just said "fine, you want to talk like this, good you're a dialect now and translator microbes, have fun."
> 
> Beru, in this, definitely is a bit more sympathetic to Obi-Wan than Owen and it has a lot to do with Obi-Wan's giving them Luke. She also hints that she does agree with some of Owen's reasons for disliking Obi-Wan, but not all of them. She's at least _willing_ to recognize that even though Obi-Wan may not share their culture and is "ignorant" or "foolish" by their cultural standards, he has had his share of suffering too - first, she alludes to his enslavement Kadavo (and also Bandomeer, depending on your EU stance) and then outright admits that the Jedi were the victims of genocide and that Obi-Wan, as a survivor, has been living with not just the grief of losing his people, but also having witnessed the murder of his whole culture.
> 
> She has no idea that the genocides of the Jedi and Alderaan are not the _only_ ones that the Empire has perpetrated by this point (Geonosis and Lasan, for example) or that Obi-Wan is not the only survivor - although, given how few survived to this point in time, she is pretty much spot on for calling him basically the only one left.
> 
> R2-D2 is a shit and I love him, you can't stop me.


	3. stir the dust of memories lost

                “What is your bidding, my master?”

                He kneels on mechanical legs that feel nothing, his cloak falling around him like a death shroud, and bows his head as much as he is able to with the respirator.  It is not that far, but it has never been meant to be.

                Above him, the hologram of Palpatine’s face twists with something akin to amusement.  “My spies inform me that something _interesting_ has happened on Tatooine.”

                Darth Vader does not move and only the sound of his respirator is proof of his continued existence.  He knows Tatooine, but only vaguely.  It exists as little more than a dim, unwanted memory to him now. Even if he had wanted to return – which he most certainly did not-, it would be unwise now.

                But it is not his choice anymore. There is no way but the path his Master has set before him and he already guesses he will be going there shortly, though he does not yet know _why_.

                “There’s been a slave revolt,” Palpatine informs him at last, with a cruel smile.  “Put it down.”

                He bows mechanically and feels nothing. The taunt of slavery lost its sting when the world was still bright and not tinted in shades of red. He is numb to it.

                “Yes, my master,” he says.

 

* * *

 

                He is surprised that he has forgotten how much he _hates_ sand.

                The respirator rattles again and his service droid sputters in distress.  The sand – _coarse, rough, irritating_ a distant memory whispers – gets everywhere and into everything.  It necessitates frequent scrubbing of his respirator filters and limits him to the relative safety of the local garrison, a minor inconvenience that rapidly transcends into an annoyance that startles him.

                He can go almost nowhere on this cursed rock, it seems.

                At the desk across from him, the garrison’s commanding officer squirms uncomfortably.  He, like everyone here, is covered in dusty traces of sand that don’t quite come out and drips with sweat in the heat of double-noon.

                Sand has clogged the air cooling units again.  In the distance, there is the steady shriek and thump of an impact drill as the base mechanics strip the aging, battered units down in silence.  It isn’t likely they’ll ever get a replacement this far out on the Rim.  But this is how things have always been on Tatooine.  Empire or Republic, it doesn’t much matter: things hardly ever change and the sand doesn’t care either way.

                “Where did the revolt start?” he asks.

                The commanding officer’s answer is quick, almost automatic: “We traced it north, to one of the Hutt palaces in Mos Bina.  It seems the violence erupted after they tried to reclaim a large number of slaves lost in a bet.”

                Vader turns, approaching the flimsiplast map tacked on the wall.  It’s an all-too-familiar situation.  Hutts are notoriously greedy and aren’t known for losing gracefully, so it’s hardly out of the ordinary that something like this has happened.  What is unusual is that this time instead of petering out, the violence has spread like brushfire.  The whole atmosphere of Tatooine feels charged, primed to explode at a moment’s notice.  Even the Force feels agitated somehow, churning restlessly on the edge of his awareness.

                Idly, he traces the pattern of pins indicating the spread of the violence and finds it familiar somehow.   Perhaps an Alliance tactic?  But why their sudden interest in the slavery on Tatooine and why _now_?  What had changed?

                “What do we know about the Hutt’s slaves?” he asks.

                “A mix of various bipedal sentients,” the commander pauses, looking at his datapad again.  “Only one recent acquisition stuck out – a shipment of Alderaanian survivors, majority human.”

                Beneath his mask, he narrows his eyes, considering.  Bail Organa had been a known Rebel sympathizer and he’d passed his shameless anti-Imperial politics on to his eldest heir, the young senator Leia.  And while Bail had met his end with Alderaan, there had been reports that she had avoided that fate, if only just, and had approached multiple planets with requests for aid.  The last reports had placed her ad hoc fleet of survivors headed for the Outer Rim.  If she _had_ made it to the Rim and been picked up by space pirates or slavers, then that surely might tempt the rebels into action.

                Except that gambling for slaves didn’t fit with their tactics.  It’s too risky, too attention-grabbing for a high level operative retrieval, and the rebels are far too good at subterfuge to take those kinds of risks when there are other, _better_ options available to them.  No, it’s far more likely that if they were involved, they would have chosen a low profile method, such as sending a single operative to either buy her freedom or help her escape and use the smugglers to get her offworld.  This couldn’t have been their handiwork.

                Still, absolutely none of his intelligence suggested she had even made it here and so there would be no reason for the rebels to become involved.

                Maybe this had been a personal matter.  It wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to stage a rescue for family and it went sour.  Strange, though, that it would have generated such a violent reaction and one that has persisted so long.  There had to be something special about this incident or maybe the individual involved.

                “What about the gambler?” he asks.  “What do we know about them?”

                The commander stills.  Then, in an even, neutral voice: “Nothing, sir.”

                Vader turns, glaring at him from beneath his mask.

                This time, the commander does not squirm.  He stands at half-ease, his expression blank and wordlessly offers the datapad.

                He takes it, scans the report, and it is exactly as said: there is nothing.  “You are dismissed, commander.”

                “Sir,” the commander bows.

                In the back of his mind, a vague sense of familiarity stirs, but it is gone before he can grasp at it.

* * *

 

                He travels north to Mos Bina via transport, taking a detachment from the garrison with him, and finds the district where the revolt started.  The Hutt palaces here are abandoned, sand spilling into the untended structures, and the few people remaining watch them move through the area with wary looks.  Long scorch marks from blaster fire stain the walls and there’s clear evidence of looting.  In the distance, the market bustles loudly as if nothing has happened.

                His medical droid blats angrily at him, reminding him that he has only a few minutes before he must return and have his filter scrubbed again.

                He ignores it.

                Stepping into the palace, he finds more evidence of violence, though the sand has long since swallowed the blood and bodies alike and everything of any value is gone.  He kneels stiffly, picking up a handful of sand, and lets it sift through his fingers as he takes in the room.

                “Commander Fremant, have your men search the area for surveillance systems,” he orders.

                The commander’s crisp _“sir”_ is punctuated with an equally crisp bow and the stormtroopers move out.

                He rises, straining against the suit’s limitations to look up towards the ceiling.

                Hutts were greedy, but they could also be _clever._

                There, among the eaves, he could see the faint shape of a holorecorder lens.

 

* * *

 

                The recording isn’t as helpful as he had anticipated.  It had been aimed straight down at the card tables below.  From this vantage point, it was very easy to see the player’s hands and determine if they were cheating, but it was absolutely _abysmal_ for identifying individual players.

                He scrolls back through the recording, idly watching the looting and violence play out in reverse, until at last things appeared to suddenly calm.  Stopping the recording, he begins to play it back.

                On the screen, the Hutt is playing Sabacc.  Their opponent is bipedal, possibly a human, but it is difficult to assess their true nature due to the camera angle.  Dressed in the traditional hooded, heavy robes of a commonplace desert traveler, only the hands and cards of the Hutt’s opponent are readily visible.  Their Sabacc hands are poor overall or middling, but it is clear there was some strategy to this individual’s actions.

                He goes back further and watches the opponent again, this time from the time they sat down.

                This person, whoever they were, definitely had some kind of plan in mind from the moment they sat down, but what it was and what their motivation was is hard to discern. What is obvious is that this person used what looked like gems of some kind to deliberately trick the Hutt into raising the pot as high as it could possibly go.

                And then, the lucky bastard managed to _somehow_ pull off an _Idiot’s Array_.

                Truly, that must have been the will of the Force itself, considering the odds stacked against them.

                The Hutt is, unsurprisingly, infuriated and chaos erupts. A bright flash washes out the recording for a moment – a blaster shot likely fired too close to the lens – and the Hutt is being strangled, dragged out of frame by a chain looped around their neck while their opponent, hood now fallen, quickly swipes up a device that the Hutt had dropped.  It looks like the chip controller. They are then helped to their feet and out of frame by a human boy in desert clothes and an aging R2 unit. A moment later, the boy returns to the frame, quickly sweeping the money and gems into a bag before he disappears again.

                He pauses the recording, rolling it back frame-by-frame until they both appear again, and looks at the top of the opponent’s head.

                Human or near-human male, possibly older, traveling with a boy – a teen most likely; both were of fair coloration and had short hair, though the older male’s hair was considerably darker than the boy’s and cropped much closer to the scalp. It’s a cut that he distantly recalls is common on Tatooine, particularly with the moisture farms.

                They are disappointingly unremarkable in every way possible.

                It is very possible that what he’s looking at is the luckiest pair of vaporator jockeys on the planet, who somehow managed to _bungle_ their way from a rescue to a _revolution_ with a deck of cards and bag of trinkets. Stranger things have certainly happened on Tatooine, as he very well knows. Then there is the fact that some people, either by sheer accident, profound dumb luck, or a weird quirk of personality, just happen to embody the most chaotic aspect of the Force and spread that chaos wherever they go.

                Still, there’s something that keeps him from dismissing them altogether: he can’t quite put a finger on it, but they are familiar, if only in the _vaguest_ sense of the word. He frowns beneath his mask and replays the recording, watching closely.  Again and again, he replays the sequence, but he is no closer to identifying either the man or the boy.

                And yet, the sense of familiarity nags at him still.  He feels, somehow, like he _should_ know this man and the boy. He is sure of it.

                He stares at the screen for a long time, but no answers come.

 

* * *

 

                “Sir,” Commander Fremant states from the doorway.

                Vader shoots a glance at him out of the corner of his eye.  The medical droid working on his filters beeps in annoyance at the distraction.

                “We’ve captured a boy,” Fremant reports.  “His ID check matches a Hutt inventory record from Mos Bina.  He was trying to sneak into the slave quarter by the port.  He was carrying one of these, along with some medical supplies.”

                The commander holds out a small device.  It’s a crude, homemade bio-scanner.  It’s lighter than it looks, barely registering as a load on his arms when he takes it, and it is designed to be broken down quickly into its component parts.

                “And his chip?” he asks.

                “Removed,” Fremant replies.  “He won’t say by whom.”

                Of course he won’t, Vader thinks and shoos away the medical droid.  “I want to speak to him – _alone._ ”

                “Sir,” Fremant says, bowing.

                He rises and follows the commander out of the room.

                There’s a small scar on the back of the commander’s neck, about the size of a chip.  The word  _free_ is tattooed below it in Aurebesh.

                Vader finds it somehow deeply ironic.

 

* * *

 

                “He’s unlikely to talk,” Fremant comments dryly, “even with encouragement.”

                It is unsaid but implied that they don’t even deem it worth trying.

                Vader ignores him, instead moving to turn off the holorecorder lens for the cell.

                Commander Fremant inclines his head in silent acknowledgement and turns his back to the observation console.  He waves his hand sharply and the Stormtroopers on guard quickly file out of the room.  With a sharp bow, the commander then leaves as well.

                Now it is just Vader and the prisoner.

                Inside the cell, the prisoner sits quietly.  He is of Mirialan ancestry and young, too, from the look of it, but that means nothing.  On Tatooine, youth is no indicator of innocence or naivety.  He is already bruised and battered, brown splotches beneath his yellow-green skin, and he does not flinch when he sees him enter – rather, he steels himself for more of the same.

                Vader stares down at him, letting the deep hiss of the respirator fill the void of silence.

                There are other ways to gain information.

                He taps into the Force, letting it flow through him and grasping it with old familiar ease, letting the prisoner’s fear and anger become a channel by which to dredge up his own and feed the power of the Dark Side.

                There.

                He grasps at the power and then digs down, deep into the place in his soul where only ashes of his former self remain.  The words come out through his modulator slowly, jarringly stilted and rusty as he stumbles to recall them:  “ _Who is the man, the one at Mos Bina?_ ”

                The prisoner stills, eyes wide in horror that he should know this secret tongue. Then, his eyes harden as he draws his lips in a thin line and juts out his chin defiantly.

                He raises a hand, clenching his fingers, and the prisoner gasps for air, clutching desperately at his throat and garbling out a prayer for strength as he is pulled upwards.

                _“Tell me,”_ he orders, relaxing his grip on the Force by a fraction, just enough to let him speak.

                An image flickers through the prisoner’s mind: a figure, face indistinct and shadowed by a hood, dressed in the robes of a common desert traveler.  Somehow, there is something familiar about this man, but he cannot place him.

                _“You will tell me,”_ he says.

                The prisoner glares at him, still struggling, and grins, haltingly grinding out the words, _“You… speak this tongue? Then… you… should know.”_

                Somewhere, deep in the ashes of his once self, something of _Anakin_ stirs in sluggish recognition, as if awakening from some great sleep, and supplies a dusty, dim recollection of stories he heard once upon a lifetime ago.

                “A children’s tale,” he intones bitterly and squeezes.

                There is no room for such things in the Empire. There is no room for anything but the way forward.

                And yet, in Mos Bina, this is one story that had become truth.

                Vader snarls in sudden fury, turning and storming out of the cell.

                The prisoner’s corpse collapses to the floor, as if it were a doll with its strings cut.

                He smiles still.

 

* * *

 

                He does not know what brings him out of his temporary quarters in the garrison – restlessness, perhaps.  Sleep hasn’t ever come easily, not for a long time.  He can’t remember if it ever did.

                The garrison is eerily quiet as he walks out to the compound yard, devoid even of the incessant thrum of the air cooling system.  Many of the rooms look empty, sand piling higher and higher in the corners as the wind kicks up. 

                In the distance, a fast-moving storm gathers.  It will be here soon.

                Where is the commander?  Where are the Stormtroopers?  There is no sign of them, no indication of where they might have gotten to.  Even the map is gone.

                On the table in the mess hall, he notices a pile of small, bloodied chips and a discarded portable holocron projector.  When he plays it, Commander Fremant’s image wavers into view.

                “I had a master once,” the recording says, features relaxed.  It is the most honest the man has ever looked.  “I bought my freedom and joined up.  I _thought_ I was free.  It turns out that I merely exchanged one master for another.”

                A dead man’s voice, the voice of the prisoner he’d killed, issues from the speakers: “One master was enough, don’t you think?”

                There is a shriek of metal and hiss of sparks as he crushes the small device in his hand.  With a scowl, he stalks out of the mess hall and into the yard.  How is it that he hadn’t seen this?

                _We show our masters only what they expect_ , a faded memory murmurs quietly.  _And they do not look any further for we are beneath their notice - this is sad but it is true and it is the way of things._

                Rage bubbles through him, boiling hot, and he flexes the Force around him. Every bit of abandoned equipment in the yard crumples.

                It’s a poor substitute.

                The wind grows stronger and his cape flaps against him.  He knows, in the way that all born to Tatooine know, that he should get inside: the storm is almost on him, but he is _angry_ and _insulted_ and his wrath is far from sated.

                His suit’s moisture alarm registers a sudden spike in the humidity and, frowning, he reaches to deactivate it.  Sand’s probably gotten into the casing again, causing it to malfunction.  Then, he pauses, eyes widening beneath his mask.

                At the gate to the compound, there’s a figure, clad in the plain hooded brown robes of a desert traveler.  His face is indistinct, covered by the shadows of the hood, but Vader _knows_ him, somehow, he is sure of it.

                _Come and see_ , the whirling sands seem to say.

                The wind flares up and crosswise, whipping off the hood of the figure, and he freezes completely, a horrified awe flooding him.  He knows this face, though he has not seen it in years, has not seen it since before Mustafar: it is _his_ face, youthful and bright, free of scars and suffering.  In his hand is a homemade chip scanner, like the one the prisoner had.

                The Force whispers words long forgotten in his ears as he stares, dumbfounded, at a children’s story come to life.

                _This cannot be real_ , he thinks, but it _is_.  He can feel the radiance of them through the Force, feel the Light side flowing through them, and it floods him with terror he hasn’t known for years.

                The figure with his face smiles.  He shines like the twin suns at double-noon.

                _Come and see_ , the wind whispers and the sand rises in the growing gale, obscuring his vision for a moment.  When it clears, the figure is gone.

                There is nothing but the wind and the sand and the silence.

                A drop of water pelts against the ground, hissing as it turns into steam.  Then, another and another, a spattering that travels quickly across the broiling sand.  The distant crack of lighting and rumble of thunder is the only warning he gets before the sky completely blackens and the sacred, life-giving rain comes down in a torrent unlike anything he has ever seen.

                Still, he remains, as if rooted to the spot.

                He wants, desperately, to laugh, but he cannot laugh anymore.  He is not capable.  A low, rattling sound comes out of the respirator instead.

                He knows this tale, distantly, an echo of brighter times, and now he is _in_ it – this is true, it must be, but it is sand-madness to think it; it is all _sand-madness_! And now it _rains_ – it _rains on Tatooine_ , something in the back of his mind shrieks in disbelief, for this, too, is a story come to life. But these things don’t make any sense – _none_ of it makes any sense!  He’d killed all that is Anakin in him long ago and buried it with Padmé and their child. How then is this all possible? Why do these stories come to life _now_ , of all times, long past when the man he buried had needed them most?

                He doesn’t understand and the Force yields no answers.

                He just doesn’t understand.

                It is the old litany that spills forth from his lips in his near complete hysteria. It is the old litany that finds him when all else that his masters have given him fail. And with it, he begs forgiveness for he has been lost and he could see no other way forward. But now, _now_ the stories are coming to life and all things are possible and it is _too much to bear._

                _Forgive me._

_I am so lost._

                He screams in pain and, through the modulator, it becomes a roar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited a fair amount in this chapter for clarity, which was kind of what I'd wanted to do anyway - plus the med droid had to stick around to scrub Vader's filters everywhere he went!
> 
> Anyway, though it's subtle, the newer thread in this is that of there being "the only way forward," which ties into some excellent commentary the comics have gotten into with Vadar about how he's literally being confronted with people who had similar choices to make and... made better ones, which just makes him _mad as hell_ and kill them that much harder because he's literally convinced himself that he's never had a choice and was always on this one path to the Dark Side.
> 
> And then come the kid's stories that appear to be coming alive and the Force is like "¯\\_(ツ)_/¯" so he just sits there, because there's all this possibility being shoved in his face and...
> 
> Well, that's a mental breakdown about to happen, folks.


	4. there is no resting yet (though you are tired)

                It is _quite_ the crowd that returns to the Lars homestead.

                They come in the early hours - slowly, for many are walking - and the speeder lags in the middle, loaded to capacity.

                Beru stares openly and C3-PO lets out a _very_ distressed “Oh _my_ ” while she attempts to compose herself enough to even speak.

                “What have you done?” she shrieks, at last. “What were you both thinking? Luke!”

                Owen looks a bit dazed, murmuring about Jedi curses and _ghosts_ , of all things, and, if Obi-Wan is not imagining things, he has sprung a fresh set of white hairs on his head.

                 It is not at all surprising to Obi-Wan, really, given that there are Skywalkers involved. Their father more than gave him his share of white hairs over the years.

                “In our defense, it all happened really _fast_ ,” Luke says, raising his hands.

                At that, Obi-Wan let out a deep sigh, dipping his head and pinching the bridge of his nose.

 _I am the best_ , R2 blats, happily scooting out from around Luke.

                Leia, her smiling face framed in the light of first dawn, agrees.

 

* * *

 

                Later, when all are introduced and settled in some fashion, it is time to talk seriously about what really happened and what comes next going forward from here. There are many things that they need to discuss and there will be many choices to make, none of them easy.

                Most immediately, the survivors of Mos Bina are in desperate need of care and shelter which are beyond the capacity of the Lars homestead to provide alone and everyone knows it, even if they do not want to _admit_ it. Most need medical treatment of varying degree. All are deeply traumatized and the Alderaanians, in particular, have the secondary trauma of losing their homeworld.

                No, Obi-Wan knows this is far beyond their capacity to handle alone.

                They need help.

                “We’ll have it, don’t worry,” Beru tells him and they move on.

 

* * *

 

                “I want to keep looking,” Leia says and Obi-Wan sees the ghost of Padmé in her. Even as she explains how her people were separated, he cannot help but see the echo of an old friend.

                It is truly heartbreaking that neither she nor Luke ever got to meet their parents as he had known them, before the _Sith_ , before Mustafar and Polis Massa.

                But that is neither here nor there.  Obi-Wan cannot turn back time and the general he once was is needed here, in the now. General Kenobi, not Jedi Master Kenobi (and certainly not the Wizard of the Wastes), knows how to organize supply chains and mobilize the kind of forces Leia would need to continue searching. It is General Kenobi who knows that the Hutts will not let their liberation efforts go unpunished – as with the Zygerrians, Hutts have no issue sacrificing the lives of their slaves to put down any attempt at rebellion and he has no desire to relive the horror he endured on Kadavo.

                “Going forward,” he reminds them all, “will not be an easy task.”

                “Anything worth doing rarely is,” Leia states with conviction.

                It is Bail he sees now in her and he is reminded that he has lost yet another old friend. How many more can they take? How many more can he bear losing?

                He has already lost nearly everything that ever mattered - his family, his friends, his home, everything he'd ever known. Even the Republic he'd once vowed to serve and protect is gone, consumed by Palpatine's cruelty and warped into the Empire; and in their eyes, he is not even a sentient being, just something _other_ , something to be mistrusted and hated, something good only for dying, a traitor for simply existing.

                No, he truly has nothing left to give, save perhaps his knowledge and his life.

                And yet, if it came down to it, he will give that life away to protect the twins without hesitation.

                “General,” Leia prods, narrowing her eyes in concern.

                Obi-Wan starts a little, blinking, and brings his attention back to the matter at hand, which is how they will go about finding the survivors of Alderaan.

                “Well, you know,” Luke pipes up with a mischievous smile, “Everyone’s probably heard about what happened by now. And a lot of people around here don’t like slavery very much.”

                The “ _and they might feel inclined to do something about it”_ is left unsaid, but blatantly obvious.

                Aunt Beru closes her eyes and sighs _very_ deeply.

                But Leia’s eyes glimmer and Anakin is there in the way her lips curl into a grin of approval, one that promises only a hint of chaos to come; and with that, Obi-Wan is at once reminded that Bail has raised her to be a spy and a rebel and a _good_ one at that.

                The Hutts have no idea what’s coming, he realizes.

                “Oh dear,” C3-PO responds reflexively.

 

* * *

 

                Far away, in the slave quarters of the towns and settlements near Mos Bina, a story spreads.

                With it comes a storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not Uncle Owen's fault that the kyber crystals are OBVIOUSLY HAUNTED. That's his story and he's sticking to it.
> 
> aka "Darth Vader is 100% correct - these are the luckiest vaporator jockeys on Tatooine", aka "Leia deadass murdered that Hutt the second she got close enough; Luke is in awe and terrified, news at 11", aka "Beru is TiredTM, let her rest", aka "Obi-Wan should have karking known."
> 
> So, this chapter got the most heavy edit, really, and only few things survived. Obi-Wan, as a result, is a lot less introspective. Still, he recognizes the parts of things that are more logistical about the situation and he also recognizes not just Anakin and Padmé in Leia, but Bail as well (and that Bail has raised a Force-damn terror, thanks Bail, you absolute madman). Unlike everyone else in previous chapters, Obi-Wan does not say "there is no other way forward." While he explicitly states that going forward will not be easy and he does acknowledge that they _must_ move forward, he remains open about how to do so. 
> 
> This is the critical difference to the other chapters: in the first chapter Leia sticks to one way forward out of survival, Luke in the second chooses one way forward because he has compassion for Obi-Wan's situation and in the third Vader sees no other way of existing at all than to simply continue on the way he's been going (until he can't). But the final chapter? There are choices. There are options.
> 
> And there's Leia, off to dismantle the System, bless her heart.
> 
> Anyway, that's it for this puppy.
> 
> I do apologize again if you were a fan of the original version, but the situation was of the sort where I felt it for the best to keep a courteous resolution. I do also ask that if you do indeed follow the other party involved and are truly their fan, _don't_ bring me or either version of this story up with them (or even any of the concepts you liked from either version of this story). They've made it pretty clear they don't want to talk about it or be contacted about it, so do me that one favor.
> 
> Any questions or concerns about the situation, please contact me privately through tumblr (daddywarbats) or fanfiction.net (twinenigma).
> 
> also, good lord, the whole Zygerria/Kadavo arc is so monumentally not for kids what the fresh karking hell
> 
> Slight Edit: ahaha the situation with the Detention Centers/Concentration Camps and the angry orange asshat has got me So Completely Not Okay, so Obi got a little more clarification because guess what the Jedi Order was wholesale Othered in a massive propaganda campaign which continued _well_ into the Imperial years in which this fic is set and oh yeah since they were all declared traitors, that slid the genocide into "legally acceptable" territory (as is what happens with these sorts of things when a party in power decides marginalized or othered groups are The Enemy). And as much as Obi-Wan has the privilege of experience and education, he's really in no way got much left beyond that, thanks to Sidious's concerted efforts to completely eradicate the Jedi Order in every conceivable way possible.


End file.
